


diamond$

by motherofrevels



Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — neutron [2]
Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Brother/Brother Incest, Complete, Crossdressing, Decadence, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Father/Son Incest, Feminization, Grooming, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28891722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels
Summary: . . . continuted from 'gla$$' / to be continued in 'pearl$' . . .What could life have been for Barley and Iandore Lightfoot, in a world where familial bonds were never broken?CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot/Ian Lightfoot, Ian Lightfoot/Original Male Character(s), Ian Lightfoot/Wilden Lightfoot
Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — neutron [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015329
Comments: 45
Kudos: 15





	1. off to the race$

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction containing potentially triggering content, involving an underage minor engaging in incest with their father and older brother. If this bothers you in any way, please feel free to check out some of the other, far more amazing works of fiction by some of the other, far more talented writers here on Archive of Our Own. Thank-you!

Thunderous applause, nearly deafening as it erupted from the mouths of spectators both amongst and below the immaculate succession of pallid marble terraces.

But to Iandore, it was just like any other race; dappled visage elevated to survey the lingering chemtrails over _‘La Maison’_ , an exclusive clubhouse to the Kheiron Derby—formed by the illustrious Aux-Gernons family.

“Congratulations to any guests who placed their bets on _March_ this afternoon! All bets are to be collected after a brief word from our sponsors!” the announcer apprised across the loudspeaker, earning himself a second ovation from his julep-drunken audience.

The smoothing of a balmy hand along a placid shoulder coaxed Iandore’s interest from the diaphanous vapor overhead, just before being swept up and into the capable arms of his monocled progenitor.

“ _Hear_ that, Kitten? Looks like we won!” Wilden chuckled, pressing a barbate kiss into the sun-bleached ribbons of his youngest’s coiled mane. “That _intuition_ of yours is something else. I don’t know how you do it,” he extolled, consecrated hazel glistening beneath the afternoon sun. “Wait _right_ _here_. Gonna collect our earnings and see if I can’t arrange a meeting with the _winner_.”

Following a second cherished endearment, Ian found his velvet loafers leveled with the pristine terrace; watching as his father ambled away to converse with several other extravagantly suited bettors.

The youth relinquished a shuddering sigh, honied opal retracing the streams of condensation lining their cloudless horizon; visions of his sibling’s neon exuberance fluttering through his nebulous mind, enmeshing with the embers of their father’s gilded aura.

Reflecting pools of Midasian treasure, with all the beauty and ardor brandished by apocryphal champions of bygone eras:

Golden eyes, crooked smiles, bewhiskered kisses—

“ _Iandore_ ,” his father beckoned, enticing his focus toward the vespertine timbre drizzling along his flourished ears. “I’d like you to meet Commissioner _Colt Bronco_ ,” the Lightfoot patriarch acquainted. “As fate would have it, the _jockey_ you chose was a _relation_ of his—”

“My _nephew_ , actually!” the Centaur proclaimed, tenor laced with an audible pride. “Your _old man_ tells me it was actually _you_ who placed that winning bet. That _true?_ ”

The decorous stripling balked, fawn-like eyes flitting between his elders.

“ _Oh!_ U-Uhm— _Hello_ there,” he bade, extending a silken palm to the lumbering authority, who offered it a remarkably tender shake. “I-I’m _Ian_. Nice to meet you, Mr. Bronco—”

“Pleasure’s all _mine,_ little fella! Call me _Colt_ ,” the lawman assuaged, a meticulously groomed mustache framing his lopsided grin. “You put your faith in my _kin_ . . . Where _I_ come from, that makes you and I buddies!”

With this, a release of his quavering hand.

“ _So!_ How’s about we grab ourselves some dinner, and _you_ _two_ gentlemen can meet the nephew while we’re at it?”

Following an exchange of tempered glances, Lightfoot senior nodded his assent, confirming their engagement for the evening.

“We’d _love_ to! Might I suggest the—"

“ _Theophania’s_ is open,” Ian interposed, his father’s demeanor shifting into one of apt bemusement. “I-I . . . I _think_ —I-I-I’m not really in the mood for anything _heavy_ ,” expounded the ingenue, a furrow at his ample brow as he proposed a reticent smile. “U-Unless _you’re_ in the mood for something heavy, Mr. Bronco! And then— _Y’know_ —We can just—”

“ _Theophania’s?_ ” Colt inquired, elevating a bronzed hand to thumb at the developing bristle at his chin. “I suppose that’s the kinda place you _rich boys_ go for little _brunches_ and the like?” he jested next, a nickering chuckle escaping him that elicited a look of mortification from Wilden, and crystalline mirth from Iandore.

“The Commissioner _might_ enjoy something a little more _substantial_ than sweets and afternoon tea—”

“ _Hey_ now,” the Centaur contested, proffering a quirk of his mustache. “Can’t say I’ve ever _eaten_ at a _jewelry_ store . . . But if the boy wants jewelry for dinner? Then I guess we’re havin’ jewelry for dinner! Whaddaya _say_ , Lightfoot?”

Shadowing a lighthearted slap along the breadth of his shoulders, Wilden stifled an indignant grimace; neglected brows tightly knit as he assessed his waiflike heir, antipathy embellishing his golden glower.

“ _Right_ ,” he muttered, a glistering smile obscuring his dissonance. “Theophania’s it _is_ . . . Though, I’d imagine Mr. March to be _exhausted_ after his race. He’d probably appreciate a shower and a cigar before _dinner_ , don’t you think?” he reasoned next, evaluating the equine officiator. “Why don’t we meet you at the café in around, oh _—”_ he paused, momentarily consulting his Pétale timepiece, “—two hours? _Three_ at the latest?”

Ensuing an exchange of handshakes and cellphone numbers, the idiosyncratic trio dispersed in reciprocal enthusiasm; the weariest of them tampering with the wax-laden edges of their million-dollar envelope as they went.

**• • •**

The resounding strike of a ringed backhand was dampened by the roar of the highway beneath their vantablack limousine; Wilden’s offspring cradling his cheek as he explored his elder’s sumptuous leer.

“The next time you interrupt two _adults_ while they’re speaking, I’ll slap you right then and there in front of _gods_ and _men_ alike. Do I make myself _clear?_ ”

But the timorous fey had been rendered silent, the fever adorning his sun-flecked cheekbone urging tears to his baby-doll eyes.

“ _Theophania’s?_ **Honestly**? You’re dragging _three_ _grown_ _men_ to dinner at a _fucking_ **_jewelry_** _store?_ What were you _thinking?_ ”

Though Wilden’s outpour was lost to the onset of his junior’s submission—eyes of axinite glazing-over as they centered on the space between his wyvrn-scale oxfords—an act which only served to provoke him further.

“ _Ah_. Of _course_. It always _escapes_ me . . . You’ve never _had_ to think for yourself,” he sneered, baring faintly misaligned teeth as he savored the inception of his progeny’s terror. “It’s always been up to your mother and I to make all your rational decisions _for_ _you_. That’s how you ended up a fucking _cum_ _dump_. Too _stupid_ to know the difference between a father and a lover, and too _pretty_ for me to leave you the _fuck_ alone.”

“Daddy, _please_ ,” beseeched the sylphlike youth, voice cracking beneath the weight of his melancholy. “C-Can we just—Just let me make it _better_ —”

“ ** _Why_** _?_ ” the greater man contested, raising gold-dusted knuckles to cradle the bridge of his powdered nose. “So you can— _what_ — **pacify** me? Drain my balls _now_ , so you can drain my wallet _later?_ ”

He flung the check containing their earnings across the synthesized dusk of their enclosure, procuring a yelp from his delicate offspring.

“Sounds like you’ve been spending too much time with your fucking _mother_ —”

“Daddy, _stop_ —!”

“I _told_ _you_ not to _fucking_ **_interrupt_** me!”

And in a flurry of fists and lunges, Lightfoot senior pinned his progeny to the faultless floor, eliciting a sequence of voiceless blather embellished by grief.

“Don’t fight me—Don’t you _fucking_ do it,” Wilden warned, calloused fingers balanced along the bruising at his offspring’s throat. “If we weren’t on our way to dinner with a fucking _pig—_ on Odin’s honor, son—I’d knock the freckles right off that pretty face,” he seethed next, all but disregarding his muse’s muted pleas for mercy. “ _Stop_ **_struggling_** . . . You wanna _fight_ _me_ , do you, boy?” he snarled, grating cherubic curls against the floorboard. “ _Well_ , what do you know? I’ve got _just_ the thing to take the fight out of you.”

With this, he delved into his rightmost trouser pocket, retrieving a lucent bottle containing an assortment of phosphorescent tablets; uncapping the lid with a practiced thumb before coaxing the rim between the fullness of his junior’s lips.

“Open your _mouth_ ,” the elder instructed, relishing the cascade of mucous and tears. “I said, _open_ _your_ **_fucking_** mouth,” he rumbled next, reaching to tangle the breadth of his fist in the pastel ribbons of Ian’s hair; prompting a whimper and enabling the entrance of two violet capsules.

“ **Swallow** ,” barked the bewhiskered patriarch, clamping a coarsened palm across quivering lips. “I’m only gonna tell you _one_ _more_ _time_.”

Obedience shadowed the gentleman’s warning, dwindling embers of trepidation and resentment lost to the frangible youth within moments of ingesting his involuntary remedy.

“ _Now_ then,” Wilden began, pocketing the unmarked medication with an arduous sniffle, “I shouldn’t have to _remind_ you of the _importance_ of networking in my line of work . . . _The Commissioner?_ Hard sale. He’s an officer of the _law_ , first and foremost, and a city _representative_ second. The odds of him catching onto our little game are fairly _high_ ,” the gentleman apprised, transposing to recline alongside his shivering offspring. “From the _gleam_ in his eye? I think it’s safe to say you’ve already managed to get on his good side . . . But we _still_ have to play our cards right, _understand?_ ”

A vacuous silence blossomed between them, eventide hailing unfocused dusk as the motionless youth lie observing the featureless ceiling.

“ _Understand_ , Freckles?”

“Yeah . . . Yes.”

“ _That’s_ my boy. Now, his _nephew?_ Would be of _immediate_ benefit to us as both a popular figure in which to sponsor in next year’s derby—attaching a successful sportsman to Astatine’s branding—as well as a direct connection to the local authorities . . . The fact that he’s around _your_ _age_ is just the icing on the cake. If you can charm _him_ as easily as you charmed _Mr. Bronco?_ Well, then we’re off to the races,” the analyst chuckled at his own jest, timbre alight with optimism.

“In _any_ case, I’m gonna need your head in the _game_ tonight, Rabbit . . . If the _jockey_ turns out to be a bust, then let’s hope the Commissioner’s as fucked in the head as _I_ am. We only need _one_ of them to get our foot in the door to the ASPD, and I can’t say I care if that means you have to swallow them _both_ by the end of the night,” he informed, obtaining a hollow glance from his gifted youngest. “We _need_ that in, no matter _what_ it takes . . . Can you _do_ that for us?”

And with a broken nod and the shadow of a smile, Iandore conceded to his father’s desires.

Losing himself within a succession of emotional disguises; the invocation of a marvelous persona—

“You know _me_ ,” he labored through the onset of intoxication.

“I’ll do anything for _diamonds_ , Daddy.”


	2. £overboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father and child exchanged bewildered glances, dense brows knitting in communal humor.

“ _Well, well._ If it isn’t _Mr. Lightfoot,_ ” hailed a remarkably dapper looking Gremlin, the occasional flick of his bifurcated tongue emphasizing his intrigue. “Always a pleasure . . . What brings you into Theophania’s this evening? A gift for the _missus_ , perhaps?”

“ _Dinner_ , actually!” the accountant replied, a radiant smile embellishing his bearded lips. “ _Actually_ , we’ll be joining a party of _two_. Commissioner Colt Bronco—”

“And his _nephew?_ Yes, you’ll find them in the VIP lounge, though Mr. March hasn’t arrived yet,” the receptionist informed, gnarled fingers blighted by an anxious gesture. “Seems as though they’ve elected to arrive separately, and Mr. Bronco seems in _desperate_ need of a little companionship.”

Lightfoot senior eyed his delicate progeny, finding himself observed by ruddy valentines.

“ _Ah!_ I see,” the elder began, an irascible tic at his ungroomed brow, “ _Well_ then, by all means, let’s give the man what he wants!”

Though consternation sullied the ophidian’s carriage; sallow vision sharpening as he observed his patron’s decorous heir.

“Yes, of _course_ , sir. Right this way.”

And as they trailed behind the finely suited Gremlin, the slightest of them couldn’t help admiring the gleam and glisten of the establishment’s displays. Despite the ardent blossoms of disharmony between he and his father, a jaunt to Theophania’s carried many a jovial memory for Iandore.

Every fleeting season birthed an exclusive collection—and subsequently—another challenge to overcome. Upon the completion of said challenge, came inexorable rewards; comprised of precious stones and glistering metals.

“Look who the _Gremlin_ dragged in!” bellowed the inelegantly seated lawman from his place behind an array of vibrant confections. “About damned _time_ someone had the decency to join me! Say, _Ian!_ These little sandwiches are top notch! _Good_ _call_ , bub!”

Father and child exchanged bewildered glances, dense brows knitting in communal humor.

“ _Oh!_ U-Uh— _Thanks_ , Mr. Bronco—”

“Colt.”

“C- **Colt**! _Right_ . . .” Ian reiterated, presenting a teeter of powder-blue curls.

“See ya got all _spruced_ _up_ there, Old Boy! Thinkin’ I might’ve underdressed for the occasion,” the Centaur chuckled, eying the analyst as he took his place before their sumptuous arrangement.

Wilden simply echoed his delight.

“Not at all! You’re wearing a _tie_ , aren’t you? What more could they _expect?_ ”

At this, a hum of reconciliation; the officer trailing weary umber to greet their graciously awaiting host.

“ _Oh!_ Sorry there, bud. Didn’t mean to leave ya _hangin’_ ,” the bureaucrat appeased, “What’re we havin’ tonight, fellas? Whatever it is, it’s on _me_!”

“ _Nonsense!_ ” challenged the Lightfoot patriarch, a furrow at his ungroomed brow. “ _We_ chose the restaurant, and your _nephew_ won his race today . . . Dinner and drinks are on us— _Fendrel?_ ”

“Sir?”

“Spirit of the evening?”

“Your choice of caramel apple or black cherry brandies—”

“Didn’t _realize_ ya carried _liquor_ ,” the commissioner interjected, elation igniting his cadence, “I’ll take two of those— _er_ — _apple_ guys! For the _nephew_ and I!”

The receptionist wavered, laboring for sobriety.

“And for _yourself_ , Mr. Lightfoot?”

“I’m a simple man. _Black cherry_ works for me,” Wilden smiled, tendering an expression of voiceless apology. “And a _White Wedding_ for the boy . . . _Thank-you_ , Fendrel. We _appreciate_ you.”

But with an earnest bow and a shake of his pallid head, the ophidian dismissed the notion.

“Always a _pleasure_ , Mr. Lightfoot.”

At length, the Gremlin took his leave; Colt presenting a quirk of his chestnut brows.

“Never heard of a _White Wedding_. That some kinda _cocktail?_ ” he queried, obsidian gaze darting between his Elven company, eliciting a glimmer of mirth.

“ _It’s_ —I-It’s _tea_ , actually!” Ian apprised, the step in his teeth revealed as he giggled. “I’m not _old_ enough to _drink_ , yet. A-And even if I _was_ —I take these _dancing_ lessons, right?” he stammered, fawn-like eyes assessing his father’s temperament. “I-I’m not that _good_ . . . But we— _I mean_ —The _school_ I go to? We’ve got, y’know, this semi-annual _Dance Festival_ thing? And— _yeah_ , like—I’m _on_ _stage_ in front of all these _people_ , and it’s just—I know what _alcohol_ can do to your _skin_ , so . . .” he trailed with a shrug, gnawing at the fullness of his lower lip; examining the bloom of incredulity across the Centaur’s visage.

“ _Huh_ ,” Colt faltered, the corners of his mustache enticed into a smirk. “Well, _alrighty_ then . . . You’re _dedicated!_ Nothin’ wrong with _that_ —”

“That ol’ man givin’ ya’ll any _trouble?_ ” resounded the brass of a Southern drawl, suspending the trio’s discussion.

“Well look who finally decided to _show!_ ” Colt blustered, a beam upon bewhiskered lips. “ _Merlin’s **beard**_ , boy! Where ya _been?_ ”

But the newcomer found himself wonderstruck beneath the focus of rusted axinite; doe-eyes flitting along the bronzed details of his rugged visage.

And within this lingering silence, the commissioner arched an incredulous brow.

“Feelin’ _alright_ there, bub?” the hybrid queried, tenor laced with apprehension.

Shadowing his elder’s inquest, the jockey forced himself from his mercurial high; a clear of his throat denoting his return to form.

“Fit as a fiddle!” he quipped, timbre brightened by a chuckle, “Lil’ wore out from the _race_ is all. Reckon I shoulda had a _nap_ before I came.”

Upon delivering his justification, the sportsman stooped to seat himself across from Lightfoot senior; skewed between the watchful eye of his graceless relation, and the ribbon-maned stripling to his left.

“ _Neighdyn March_ ,” he introduced, extending a calloused palm to the monocled gentleman. “ _Kinfolk_ call me _Nate_ . . . _Apologize_ fer keepin’ ya’ll waitin’,” he grinned, admiring the solidity of Wilden’s handshake.

“No need to apologize,” assured the auditor, relinquishing his grip upon the hybrid. “It’s a pleasure to finally _meet_ you! You were _incredible_ today . . . I’m Wilden Lightfoot, and this is my youngest son, Iandore.”

“Well, s _hucks_ , Mr. Lightfoot! You don’t gotta say all _that_ ,” the athlete parried, proffering a shake of his loosely bound tresses. “The fact that ya’ll bet _so much!_ Man, when my uncle ran the _numbers_ by me?! I couldn’t believe my _ears!_ Not that I hear too good _anyway_ , but, I just—I gotta thank ya fer _believin’_ in me . . . _Glad_ I didn’t let ya’ll down.”

He then turned his attention to the fairest among them, eyes of umber cherishing a rosy flush and childlike visage.

“ _Iandore_ , was it?” he inquired, brandishing a lopsided grin. “That’s kinda _pretty_ , ain’t it?” he added next, mirthful obsidian gliding to hail his fellow equine. “So, the _ol’ man_ tells me _you_ scoped me out . . . Outta _all_ the guys in that race,” he mused, offering the sylphlike youth a balmy handshake. “It ain’t _much_ , but I wanna _thank_ ya . . . Us young bucks gotta stick _together_ , _huh?_ ”

“Y- _Yeah!_ No problem,” the ingenue deflected, accepting the Centaur’s affable gesture. “Dad was _right_ , by the way! You were _great_ out there,” he extolled, a furrow adorning his ample brows. “A-Also—My _friends_ just call me Ian! It’s like—It’s less _formal_ , y’know?” he reasoned, shadowed by a timorous chuckle. “But if you _wanna_ call me Iandore—”

“It’s worth the _effort_ , if yer askin’ _me_ ,” the sportsman interposed, elevating faultless knuckles to the blight and bristle at his upper lip—

“ _Woah!_ ” Colt excoriated, dishonor dampening his visage as he reached to swipe his nephew’s sun-tanned bicep. “ _Lay off_ there, lover boy!” he dissented, mortified obsidian evaluating Lightfoot senior in a show of trepidation. “What the Hel’s gotten _into_ you?”

Though Wilden merely chuckled in response, gilded ivy honoring consecrated opal as father and son exchanged a glint of reciprocal amusement.

“Let the man _enjoy_ himself, Commissioner,” opposed the Elven patriarch, catching sight of their attendants.

“He knows his mind, and what he wants . . . I can’t say that I blame him.”


	3. luxur¥

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nights like these were remarkably taxing.

“Feels like I haven’t tasted you in a _month_ ,” groused burnished baritone, insatiable lips lighting blistering trails along the hollow of a sun-flecked chest.

And at the pinnacle of every endearment, Iandore arched into brine and bristle; manicured nails ensnaring themselves in unctuous cerulean, urging his lover lower still.

“I-It hasn’t even been a _week_ ,” he insisted, worrying the fullness of his lower lip. “Dad _told_ you—” he paused for a gasp, “—Dad _said_ you could come—”

“Did he _really?_ ” contested his lumbering elder, rousing reflections of sumptuous gold. “ _Funny_. Must have slipped his mind to tell _me_.”

With this, he continued; lubricious tongue delving to savor the quivering plains of a cashmere core.

“I-I’m—I’m _sorry_ , Barley,” the slighter appeased, breathless and eager despite his exertions for poise. “It wasn’t even that _fun_ ,” he mewled through the floret of pleasure. “I-I-It was only a _race_ —”

“ _‘Twas only a race,’_ says he,” the fabler quipped, timbre enshrouded in medieval drama. “And what of the valiant _knight_ who endeavored to snare thine treacherous heart?” he queried, feathering kisses along the unyielding endowment concealed within nightfall and satin.

“S-Stop teasing me,” his junior beseeched, bucking into bewhiskered kisses. “I don’t wanna _wait_ anymore.”

“Doth mine brother _dare_ to **protest**?” retorted the older Lightfoot, an arch of an unkempt brow garnishing his rugged visage. “Yet with _anxiousness_ and _utmost loyalty_ , I **deigned** to await thee—"

“Cut the _shit_ , Barley!” the fledgling seethed, floridity varnishing dappled artlessness. “W-We don’t have a lot of _time_ here, man,” he reminded, gesturing toward their surrounding miscellany.

“As you _wish_ , my liege,” the Quest Master chaffed, flaunting a roguish grin.

In an instant, Ian’s boyhood was freed from its opulent confines, springing forth in a manner that enticed a chuckle from the philistine’s lips. Though his mirth was ephemeral; cannibalized by duty and hunger as he engulfed his brother’s throbbing length. And the phonation this inspired was music to his flourished ears, delicate palms attempting to moor in the oiled silk of his wayward mane.

“C-Can you—” the slighter faltered, suppressing an abject whimper “—S- _Slow down!_ Don’t _go_ so fast!”

With an emphatic _pop_ , Barley withdrew from his pulsating hardness.

“ _‘Make haste, for time is but a fleeting luxury’_ , the Boy King sayeth unto me,” parried the raconteur, conferring a prurient lap along Iandore’s member.

“W- _What_ are you _saying_ — **Barley** —I-I just— _Okay_. You’re _right_. We should hurry,” stammered the decorous luminary; childlike countenance grazed by fire.

“’Twould be my _pleasure_ ,” the barbarian muttered, descending upon the rigidity before his bewhiskered lips; procuring a sequence of delves and departures.

With this, the younger was drawn beneath an inundation of eventide; weightless hips arching into unequivocal pleasure.

He labored to suspend his release, baby-doll eyes exploring the rifts along Guinevere’s patchwork ceiling; consciousness trailing to that of their contemptible surroundings, entombed in an alley near downtown New Mushroomton.

Nights like these were remarkably taxing: the Lightfoot brothers taking delight in the risk of rebellion but ruing the inexorable penalties.

Circumstances had to be _immaculate_ to facilitate an unseen escape. And even then _,_ it seemed as though their mother and father would always uncover their machinations.

If their _caretakers_ didn’t catch them, the _cameras_ certainly would—

“I-I don’t think I can _hold_ it,” whimpered the timorous heir, tears of ecstasy veiling blameless valentines. “I’m gonna _cum_ —”

And _indeed_ , ribbons of glistering pearl spilled onto the gamer’s lascivious tongue, inciting a murmur of voiceless gratitude.

The slighter boy vacillated, sputtering into the apex of his euphoria until at last the sensations had become unbearable; lissome palms laboring for purchase against his brother’s temples, inspiring him to decelerate.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” the juvenile respired, skewed by reprieve and revulsion of self, “ _Thanks_ , Barley . . . I-I really _needed_ that.”

“Think _nothing of it_ , milord,” jested the fabler, permitting himself a decisive taste before rearing back upon his knees, lustrous hazel trailing along the heaving hollows of his sibling’s body. “Wanna grab some _ice-cream_ on the way back to Aes Sídhe?”

At this, a knit of incredulous brows; Iandore contending to wade through his nebulous afterglow.

“U- _Uhm_ . . . Are there—What’s even _open_ this late?” he inquired, observing as his brother set about cleaning him up. “Y-You don’t have to _do_ that—”

“If memory serves—and it usually _does_ —The Basking Robin on _Everstill_ is open twenty-four hours,” the quester proposed, discarding the freshly-used shop towel. “If _not_ , there’s always good ol’ _Swamp Gas_ ,” he concluded with a cunning smirk, coaxing his willowy sibling into a seated position.

With a tremulous sigh, the stripling reflected consent, candied focus lighting upon the viscosity bleeding through his elder’s denims.

“ _Barley_ , you . . . Lemme help you _out_ —”

“Don’t _worry_ about it,” deflected the chronicler, presenting a second shop towel to scrub the pool of nectar from his upper thigh. “You were _right_ , we don’t have a lot of time . . . Won’t be long until the NMPD comes a-knocking,” he chuckled wryly. “Gwinny’s kind of an _eyesore_ at the moment. Wouldn’t be much of a _challenge_ to spot her in a dingy alleyway.”

“Yeah . . . _Yeah_ , okay,” Ian concurred, bequeathing a reciprocal nod. “M-Maybe when we get _home_ ,” he offered next, accepting his brother’s aid in his efforts to clothe himself.

“Oh _yeah?_ ” Barley questioned, withholding a devilish simper. “Did I tell you how _sexy_ you looked in my vest tonight? I mean, you looked sexy _in_ _general_ , but—”

“ _Fuck off_ , Barley.”

“I’m **serious**!” the voyager bellowed, brandishing a wolfish grin. “You looked _good_ , little bro . . . I don’t get to see you _like_ _this_ very often,” commended the quester, “Dressed down and _relaxed_ . . . It’s _nice_. The way _Briar_ and _Pop_ keep you all dolled up, _sometimes_ I forget you’re my **brother**.”

“ _Hey!_ ” Ian reproached, awarding a mischievous slap to his elder’s bicep. “Don’t drag _Dad_ into this . . . A-And leave _Briar_ alone,” he opposed, a smirk adorning his freckled lips. “It’s just—They like—They just _like_ what they _like_ —”

“ _Yeah_ , okay. Good for _them_. But where’s _your_ say in all that?” Barley challenged, a quirk threading through his unmanaged brows. “I mean, _I get it_. You’re _cute_. **I** like seeing you made-up as much as the _next_ guy, but I _also_ like you when you’re just . . . _yourself_.”

A vacuous silence blossomed between them, swiftly disrupted by rumbling grief.

“ _Hey_ . . . Don’t _look_ at me like that,” the gamer beseeched, caressing the marquis of his junior’s jaw. “I just wanna be sure you’re doing all this for _yourself_ . . . Dad’s always been harder on _you_ than on _me_. And I can’t say I _like_ it, but I’ve always _respected_ it,” he lingered, coarsened fingers skirting along sweat-dampened curls. “But _lately_? I see all these bruises, and I see all these _ribs_ ,” he trailed, admiring the synthesized hue of his brother’s tresses. “And I see all these _outfits_ and _makeup_ and _hair_ . . . Then I hear what he _does_ to you . . . I hear it from all the way down the hall.”

A second waver bloomed therein; this time embellished by trepidation.

“And I know you _enjoy_ it—or you’ve _learned_ to enjoy it—but it makes my blood boil. And I wanna _protect_ you,” he conceded, releasing a petulant breath. “But when he’s busy with _Mom_ , or he’s—fuck if _I_ care . . . You crawl into my bed, or sit on my lap, and we end up like _this?_ ” he paused for a gesture, “It _dawns_ on me . . . I’m no better than _he_ is . . . No better _at all_.”

Withdrawing the breadth of his calloused fist, the fabler examined the void between them.

“I might _hate_ him for it . . . But I realize now that I hate _myself_ more.”


	4. ri฿s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she concluded, embraced by the sun, she poured over the details of her gossamer kin.

Reflecting pools of molten vesper explored each other from across an immaculate lounge area; calloused fingers gliding mithril dinnerware through the contents of a porcelain mug.

“Believe it or _not_ ,” came a roil of sumptuous baritone, “I completely _understand_ how you feel—”

“That’s not _true_ ,” barked the younger, bristled lips pursing in an endeavor to steady his nerves. “If you actually _cared_ , then you wouldn’t be **doing** it. You _know_ what you’re doing is killing him—”

“ _Barley_ ,” the elder interposed, allowing himself a liberal sip of his afternoon tea. “You’ve always been one for _logic_ and _reason_ . . . I know it hasn’t _escaped_ you that there are _clear_ differences between _yourself_ and Iandore,” he expounded, luminous hazel tracing the tension along his junior’s bicep. “Physically, mentally, dare I say _emotionally?_. . . You boys have always _required_ different things. Different _methods_ of parenting—”

“ _C’mon_ , Pop. Don’t _gimme_ that bullshit,” contested the neon vulgarian, “You’re seriously gonna sit there and justify _hurting_ my brother? _Your son?_ ”

Both men set the breadth of their barbate jawlines.

“Look, I’m not _asking_ you to explain what you _do_ with him . . . We **both** share in that sickness,” the philistine jested, procuring a lull of reciprocal mirth. “But the _bruises?_ ” he paused with a knit of his brow, “You can _see_ that he’s brittle. You _keep_ him that way—”

“Don’t be **ridiculous** ,” Wilden disputed, “It’s not like I _starve_ the boy—”

“You’re _right_. You don’t _have_ to,” the younger opposed, begrudging the glint in his father’s eye. “But you make him feel _guilty_ for eating—”

“That’s _nonsense_ —”

“ _It’s **not**!_” Barley thundered, hostility marring his rugged handsomeness. “It’s the _truth_ , and you **know** it,” he pressed with a baring of misaligned teeth. “He _trusts_ you, Dad . . . More importantly? He **_loves_** you—”

“And he _knows_ that **I** love **him** , _too_ —”

“But _do_ you?” countered the raconteur, countenance taut with righteous dissension. “Do you even _recall_ what it feels like to love someone more than you love your _possessions?_ ”

A mercurial chuckle—embellished by nacreous venom.

“You and your brother? **Are** my _possessions_ , Barley,” respired the patriarch, taking a stand as he emptied his herbal blend. “I _admire_ your chivalry. _Really_ , I do . . . Confronting me must have been difficult for you,” he commended, varnished footfalls stilling beneath an extravagant archway. “But that misguided anger? I think we could _all_ do without it.”

“ _That’s_ . . . I-I’m—It’s **not** _misguided_ —!”

“Ian’s mind is his _own_ , son . . . Nobody’s keeping him quiet,” he lingered for a glance at his glistening timepiece. “If he’s _really_ that miserable, why haven’t **_I_** heard about it?”

But the quester was speechless, mind laboring for purchase upon a sliver of certainty.

“ _Ask_ him,” echoed Wilden’s final decree, ambling from beyond the opulence of the drawing room.

“If it’s all that you _say_ it is . . . You both _know_ where to find me.”

**• • •**

Supple fingers skirted along both briar and bloom; imbibing the moisture from serrated fronds.

“You _know_ ,” chimed a voice like the luster of crystal, “if you ask _me_ , I think you kinda _like_ that girl.”

“ _Mom!_ ” cried a second, caressed by naïveté, “N-No _way!_ —It’s not—Sadie’s my _friend!_ **Just** my friend.”

Next, a twinkle of glistering bliss.

“Well, _alright_ . . . If you _say_ so,” bantered the first, Venusian curves draped in ivory organza. “But I think she likes _you_ , at the _very_ least—”

“ **Mom**!”

“Okay, _fine!_ ” Laurel giggled, the halo of springtime adorning her Southern Sea pearls. “I just want you to know that . . . The _Aux-Gernons?_ They’ve _moved_ _mountains_ for this family. I’d never deny that,” she trailed as she wavered to smell of a rose. “But honey, _y’know_ . . . Your _father_ and I would still love you _just_ as much, if things didn’t work out between you and _that_ _boy_ of theirs.”

And Iandore wavered in turn.

“Y- _Yeah_ . . . Yeah, _I_ _know_ ,” fibbed the younger, arching ample brows. “But, _Mom_ , I . . . I really _do_ —”

“You _like_ him,” she determined, a gleam in her valentine eyes. “I _know_ you do, sweetheart . . . And _I_ like him, _too_ , but . . . I just—You’re my _baby_ ,” she sighed with a grin, drawing the ingenue under her wing. “You’re so _young_ , and I _worry_ , and—Oh, _I_ don’t know.”

Pressing a kiss into powder-blue curls, the Lightfoot matron embraced her willowy youngest; luxuriant contours enmeshing with cavernous ribs.

And the smile on her lips veiled the ache in her heart at the feel of them.

“I suppose I just . . . want you to know that I **love** you. _Alright?_ No matter _what_ ,” she confessed, swallowing grief and remorse. “Your _Dad_ and I—We’ve been _busy_ lately, and . . . I-I know we’re not _here_ all the time, but,” she faltered, granting herself a second endearment, “We’re only a _phone call_ away . . . You boys _call_ , and we’ll _answer_. Day or night, night or day . . . _Okay?_ ”

As she concluded, embraced by the sun, she poured over the details of her gossamer kin.

And she was examined in turn.

“M- _Mom_ . . . _Jeez_ ,” Ian chuckled, a weight in his heart that he hadn’t anticipated as he offered a parting embrace. “I love you, _too_ , Mama—”

“Aha! _There_ you are,” came a rumble of vespertine, “My two _favorite_ roses, out here in the garden.”

With a flourish of hair-dusted knuckles, the newcomer presented a single red bloom; threading it into cerulean silk.

“Oh, _c’mon_ , Wil. C _ut it out_ ,” Laurel flushed, delight on her lips as she sanctioned her husband’s kiss; though his gaze never trailed from his progeny. “Where’s my _Barley?_ ” she wondered, quirking an incredulous brow.

“In the lounge taking afternoon tea,” Wilden quipped, accepting a lighthearted slap.

“Oh, but of _course_ ,” the socialite giggled, adjusting the blossom adorning her tresses. “ _Barley_ without his _Mount Doom?_ **This** I’ve gotta _see_.”

“Well, before you do _that_ ,” Wilden murmured, drawing her into his fragrant embrace; and Iandore felt he was drowning. “I was _pondering_ if I might perhaps _whisk thee away_ to make merry the shadow of night.”

“ _Frigg_ have mercy,” she simpered, laboring against her husband’s might. “Ian’s _right_ _here_ , y’know—!”

“Oh, _I know_ ,” purred the patriarch, Midasian gaze fixed upon his diaphanous offspring. “He’s not a _child_ anymore. _Are_ _you_ , Freckles? . . . Knowest he _verily_ what goeth on betwixt dirty old _lords_ and bewitching young _maidens_ —”

“ _Alright, **alright**!_” she contended, pressing delicate fingers to bewhiskered lips. “Well, when **I** was his age? I would have rather watched _anything_ but my _parents_ —I-I dunno— _getting it **on**_ in the garden—”

“ _Ugh!_ **Mom** —!”

“ ** _See_** _!_ ” she exclaimed, brandishing a Cheshire grin as she writhed her way free; bolting into the hedge maze beyond.

With a mischievous grin, Wilden rushed to pursue her; ringed fingers grazing his son as he passed.

Two lovers lost to the wonder of romance.

Savoring the aurora of eventide.

And Iandore was savored in turn.


	5. s₳y so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In so many ways, he reminded the decorous youth of his older sibling.

_‘N8_ _🏇: So when do I get to see you again?’_ read the words upon the backlit screen; an incandescent tribute from a man who knew not what he asked for.

Blameless eyes of candied cinnabar traced along the query time and again, a kiss-swollen lower lip drawn between pearlescent teeth . . .

What was anyone to _say,_ to a man like Neighdyn March?

Weeks crept through the rifts in his tremulous grasp since their unceremonious introduction. But in the back of his mind, the hybrid belonged to his father.

Whatever happened between them? Played into his elder’s ambitions.

Though Iandore labored for belief in a world where the athlete could be only his—

And therein, a vibration—a second inquiry having arrived before he’d entirely considered the first:

 _‘N8_ _🏇: Did I come on too strong at the restaurant??’_ it wondered, self-awareness embossing its tone.

At this, a destabilized grin—treacherous as it was darling—the kind that blistered the hearts of all who adored him.

Ian steadied his nerves, deliberating his reply, but decisively opting for candor.

‘Just a little,’ he penned, brows drawn as he relinquished his confession. ‘But I liked it,’ he conceded thereafter.

As checkmarks appeared alongside his admissions, the scion pondered the Centaur’s objective; watching the ebb and flow of ellipsis as the other mapped out his response.

 _‘N8_ _🏇: I apologize.. I was really excited. I didnt expect you to be so darn cute..!’_ came the first, closely followed by a second.

 _‘N8_ _🏇_ _: If you dont feel that way about me, I get it.. But if you give me a shot maybe I could change your mind? Im better than that guy you met at the restaurant…’_

And shadowing silence—embroidered with humility—one last word:

 _‘N8_ _🏇: Please..?’_

Iandore was enraptured; the medication he’d purloined from his mother’s medicine cabinet finally permitting him abandon and bliss. So, as he thumbed along the crystalline geometry beneath his dewy palms, he assessed his response to the best of his nebulous ability:

‘If you say so,’ he answered at length, a languid smile upon his sun-flecked lips as he awaited the jockey’s reply.

 _‘N8_ _🏇: Youre the best.. Can I scoop you up now? Wanna meet me someplace??’_

But the luminary judiciously contemplated, mind wading through synthesized euphoria.

‘Mom and Dad ran off to some party… So I doubt they’ll notice I’m gone,’ he recounted, assent on the pads of his fingers. ‘But where are we going? My brother will ask, and I have to tell him… Sorry. I don’t really know you that well.’

The inquest elicited a moment of stillness; a flux of withdrawal and rejoinder.

 _‘N8_ _🏇: First and foremost I want you to know that Id never put you in any danger. I swear to you Im not that guy..’_

A second riposte, tender and pure:

 _‘N8_ _🏇: And second of all Ill be happy to go where you tell me.. Ill let you make that decision.. I got no agenda. Just want your company..’_

Despite his incredulity, the Lightfoot heir acceded to the Centaur’s proposal; coaxing himself from the lushness of his bedding to procure his brother’s approval.

An effortless task, when adulation eclipsed sensibility.

**• • •**

The sportsman’s hunter-green SUVT was _far_ from ecologically sound for their evening excursion.

It was the closest the minor could imagine to riding in an armored vehicle. Though ensuing what had become hours of observation, he decided the vessel indeed suited its keeper.

Neighdyn was mellow and effortless, yet comprised of unbridled vigor.

His ambitions became his reality. What he spoke from his heart became law.

In so many ways, he reminded the decorous youth of his older sibling.

“ _So_ ,” the equid began with a lopsided grin, “Feels like I’ve been talkin’ about _myself_ all night long . . . Any reason fer that?”

As he trailed, his parcel elicited a circumspect chuckle; rounded eyes drifting along the glow of a backlit dashboard.

“ _Yeah_ . . . I-I guess I just keep asking you _questions_ , huh?” the stripling deduced, presenting a shrug as he pondered his justification. “S _orry_ , Neighdyn—”

“Call me _Nate_.”

“ **Right**! I-I-I’m _sorry_ , Nate . . . I _think_ I just . . . I-I’m just used to _listening_ more than talking,” he explained with a hallmark gnaw of his lower lip. “My _Dad_ and my _brother_ . . . They’re both more like,” he paused to evaluate, “They’re just _talkers_ , I guess . . . They’re both—”

“More like _me?_ ”

“ _Yeah!_ —N- **No**!—I mean—!”

But Neighdyn was lost to amusement, broad shoulders racked by whickering mirth.

“I-I didn’t _mean_ it that way—”

“ ** _Relax_** , darlin’ _,_ ” Neighdyn parried, a glint in his eye as he curbed his delight. “It’s _okay_. It’s _alright_ . . . It was _funny_ ,” he lauded, “ **You’re** funny . . . I _like_ that.”

As the jockey endeavored to temper his merriment, the ingenue chuckled in kind.

“F- _Funny?_ . . .” he contemplated, quirking a brow at the notion. “Don’t think I’ve ever . . . heard _that_ one before.”

“Well, _that’s_ a damned shame,” the athlete apprised, extending a dazzling grin. “Funny’s a _good_ thing. Laughter’s _important_ ,” he pressed with a glance toward his treasured cargo. “Though, I reckon you _fancy_ _types_ might not think about it that way.”

At this, an arch of an ample brow.

“We _‘fancy types’_ laugh just as much as the next guy,” the slighter contested, diffidence marring his valentine gaze.

“Is that right?” inquired the equine, nodding toward a succession of seaside parking spaces. “S’pose I gotta _see_ it to _believe_ it,” he quipped, pulling into an accessible lot at an angle; wholly disregarding the markings. “Guessin’ we’ll go fer a _walk_ . . . If that’s alright with _you_.”

Though Iandore faltered; doe-eyes darting about the blackened horizon—then back at the man to his left.

“Oh . . . Y- _Yeah_. Sure,” piped the fledgling, swallowing his anxiousness. “ _Sorry_ I couldn’t think of— _I- **I**_ dunno— _Anywhere_ , really.”

But the hybrid merely offered a shake of his disheveled hair, dismissing his junior’s apology.

“Nothin’ to _apologize_ for,” he assured, unfastening his seatbelt—his passenger following suit. “I come out here to _think_ every now and again,” he conceded, halting the drone of his thundering engine. “Whole different _world_ way out here in the West . . . But the _ocean?_ She’s always the same.”

Veiled in the dusk of their capacious enclosure, opal and sable examined each other.

“I-I _guess_ that’s true . . . So _where_ —How long have you been living in _Aes Sídhe_ —?”

“Ain’t it about _yer_ turn to answer some questions?” the Southerner countered; rumbling against their sussurant peace. “What made ya wanna _hang out_ with me tonight? If ya don’t mind my askin’, o’course.”

Ensuing a moment of apt contemplation, the Lightfoot successor found himself undecided.

“ _Well_ . . . Y-You _asked_ me to,” he giggled, the step in his teeth revealed as he followed a flicker of tension along the equid’s bicep. “A-And I mean, I didn’t have anything _else_ going on—”

“That ain’t the _only_ reason, though . . . _Is it?_ ” refuted the athlete, tonguing the scar at his upper lip.

Though in the onset of silence, the sportsman looked haunted; a furrow ensnaring incredulous brows.

“Well, _hey_ . . . _Alright_ then,” he began with a smile, “No hard _feelin’s_ or nothin’—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Ian barked, vermillion hailing darkened obsidian. “I-I didn’t _say_ anything yet,” he defended, limber palms elevated in acquiescence. “I need—L-Lemme _think_ . . .”

“Sir, yes _sir_ . . . Roger that,” grinned the Centaur, relishing the details of his gossamer cargo.

“I-It’s _just_ . . . Well, like—I-I-I’m **engaged** . . . _Basically_ ,” the scion confessed, catching a glimpse of uncertainty within their lightless enclosure. “It’s like—It’s an _arranged_ . . . _thing_ ,” he added next, a shrug about his delicate shoulders. “ ** _I_**. . . didn’t even know about it _myself_ . . . Not until a few _weeks_ ago.”

Notwithstanding his comrade’s assertion, Neighdyn found himself filled with a sense of resilience; levity gracing his rugged visage.

“It don’t sound like you _love_ him, though . . . Least, not to _me_ ,” came a roil of lighthearted banter.

“ _Well_ I . . . I-I don’t _hate_ him. He’s **great**. But, like— _Marriage?_ I—I-I’m still in _High School_ . . . Y’know? A-And its . . . Its _complicated,_ I guess . . . It _just_ —It feels like I’m doing it for _somebody_ _else_ —”

“Then lemme give ‘em some friendly _competition_ ,” the equine beseeched, tenacity shading his timbre. “Now, I _reckon_ he’s prolly some _fancy young rich boy_ like **you** . . . And he’s _tall_ , and he’s _pretty_ — _Thoroughbred_ and polite . . .”

With this, the Centaur adjusted his posture, relieving the latch on the driver’s-side door. And to Ian’s amazement, the threshold ascended; allowing the hybrid to step from his tailored support.

So he rounded their vesper-clad bastion, embraced by the bellow of current and gale.

And as his decorous muse admired the artistry of equine innovation, he found _his_ door unlatched in kind; unveiling the face of his gallant acquaintance.

“But _I’ll_ make you _proud_ o’ me,” the sportsman continued, embellished by candor and temperance. “Every day that I breathe, I’ll _succeed_ in yer honor . . .”

“When I _win_ , I’ll be winnin’ fer _you_.”


	6. ₡innamon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A waltz of hydrangea and burnished copper.

They were playing a dangerous game—both well aware, and far too eager.

The _gambling_ sort that Lightfoot senior often played with his offspring’s lives, his youngest now played with a Rook amongst ranks and files.

“A-Are you _sure_ Mr. Bronco won’t hear us?” Iandore queried, a furrow marring the fullness of his brows. “I just . . . I-I dunno if he’ll be upset that we—”

“Now, you just let _me_ worry about him,” soothed his elder, bristled lips at the bite-blemished contours of gaunt collar bones.

Their oceanside venture had been an ingratiating endeavor on Neighdyn’s behalf, and a _successful_ one at that; the windswept fey delighting in the knowledge that Centaurs were _indeed_ resilient enough to mount, even without the use of a saddle.

The hybrid questioned if his heart had ever been more full: the flutter of jubilant alto dancing about his equid ears, the marquis of his muse’s jaw buried in the breadth of his bronzed shoulder, willowy arms entwined ‘round his sturdy core . . .

What was it about the Elven luminary that enchanted him so?

_Love at first sight_ , he recollected—a phenomenon necessitating incredulity.

But here, entombed within honied depths of guiltless axinite, lay not love, but visceral desire. And so it came to pass that _lust_ would be the essence of their starlit evening; phosphorescence blossoming along the fledgling’s pastel skin with every graze of blemished lips.

Beneath the voiceless veil of midnight flourished appeals for uncharted pleasures, and Neighdyn found himself vulnerable to each of his junior’s yearnings.

“N-Not so _hard_ ,” Ian whimpered, nimble fingers ensnared in the athlete’s salt-dampened tresses.

Though the smirk on the greater man’s lips professed his intentions, tongue encircling one erect nub before gliding across to the next: sporadic nibbles eliciting whimpers and pleas.

“Y-You can’t leave _marks!_ ” admonished the ingenue, a dimming of baby-doll eyes divulging his dithering temperance.

“ _Right_ ,” Neighdyn grumbled, misaligned teeth renouncing their hold on the youth’s fevered nipples. “ _Sorry_ ‘bout that. Gettin’ carried _away_ —”

“It’s _okay_ ,” Ian parried, presenting a shake of his opaline curls. “A-And _actually_ — **I’m** sorry . . . I know it’s . . _weird_. The whole thing about—”

“You bein’ a _virgin?_ ”

“ _Yeah_ —Well . . . **_Yeah_** ,” Ian mused with a gnaw of his kiss-swollen lips. “M-More like . . . having to _stay_ that way, I guess.”

Though his lumbering elder submitted a shrug, then a gleam of his lopsided grin.

“It’s a lil’ _ol’ fashioned_ , but that’s alright with _me_ . . . I’m a lil’ ol’ fashioned _myself_ , I suppose,” he paused to indulge in a lingering kiss, cinnamon rum bewitching his palate. “ _Besides_ . . . If I’m bein’ forthright with ya, I ain’t too sure it’d **fit** ,” he chuckled, drifting his touch to the stripling’s posterior. “But there’s _plenty_ I can for ya that _don’t_ involve . . . Well, _y’know_.”

With a nod of assent and a quavering sigh, lust-blown axinite honored obsidian.

“ _Well_ ,” Ian trailed with a lilt of trepidation, “W-What if I wanna do something _for_ _you?_ ”

Arching an incredulous brow, the sportsman’s gaze darted to survey the equine portion of his suntanned frame.

“I ain’t too sure about _that_ either,” he opposed with a shamefaced grin. “You ain’t gotta do _anything_ —”

“I _want_ to,” the slighter contested, doe-eyes observing the tautness in Neighdyn’s carriage. “I-It could be _fun_ . . . Right?”

A shambling chuckle, rigid and rueful.

“Could be _messy_ ,” grumbled the equid, thumbing across the cashmere plains of his bedmate’s lissome thighs. “ _And_ it’s . . . I’m guessin’ it’s prolly not anything like _yers_ , or . . . yer _boyfriend’s_ —”

“W- _Wait_ , what—” Ian interposed, knitting his ample brows, “—what do you mean, _‘guessing’?_ . . . I-I thought you would _know_ —”

“I _do_ know,” challenged the athlete, crimson embellishing his rugged visage. “I _do_ . . .”

Reciprocal silence settled between them then, the hybrid avoiding his junior’s bewildered leer.

“I’ve read a few _books_ . . . And seen _plenty_ online,” Neighdyn maintained with a grimace, “And I _obviously_ know how to _hold_ you, and _touch_ you—”

“A-And _kiss_ me.”

“And **_kiss_** you—!”

“But you’ve . . . never gone any _further?_ ”

Therein flourished a second stillness, less acute than the first.

“ _Look_ , it’s—” he paused for a reticent swallow “—It’s _complicated_ , alright?”

He allowed his discomfort to linger.

“The folks I’ve been _into?_ . . . We don’t _get_ this far,” he pined for a gesture between them. “ _‘Good ol’ Nate’_ ,” he recounted, “ _‘Always jumpin’ that gun’_. . . I just—I’ve never been good at _the_ _game_ , y’know? . . . When I _like_ you, I **_like_** you. I don’t _wanna_ pretend.”

With a tremulous sigh and a dip of his gaze, the Centaur presented a flippant shrug.

“ _You’re_ the first one that’s ever really . . .” he trailed with a purse of his unshaven lips. “ _Look_ , I’m real sorry. I’m killin’ the mood—”

“N- _No_ . . . No you’re not,” Ian breathed with a tilt of his head. “Thanks for—y’know—s _haring_ all that . . . I-I-I _get_ it. I _do_ ,” he smiled, the step in his teeth revealed as he steadied his palms along the breadth of the equine’s chest. “To be _honest_ , I’m no expert myself,” he conceded, floridity gracing his dappled countenance. “I mean, I-I guess I’ve done more than _you_ ,” a roil of tension halted his rhetoric, “But maybe . . . I could _teach_ you a thing or two?”

Valiant sepia hailed faultless moonstone, youthful tenderness marred by glistering wonder as balmy hands labored for understanding. And as passion deposed hesitation, a waltz of hydrangea and burnished copper; teeth and tongues striving for ascendancy until at last parting for lifegiving air—calloused fingers etching patterns along blemished silk, judiciously balancing pleasure and pain.

“O- _Okay_ , so . . . Can I _try_ something?” inquired the slighter, voice not his own as he charted the sportsman’s hind quarters. “I promise I won’t make it weird.”

And though his elder remained aptly diffident, his resolve wavered beneath the influence of blameless vermillion.

“I don’t think I could rightly say _no_ to ya . . . Not when yer lookin’ at me like that—”

“ _Good_ ,” Ian chirped, a chuckle on his freckled lips as he pressed one last kiss into bristle and trauma. “L-Lemme give it a _shot_.”

In a sequence of inelegant gestures, the youth crawled his way to the head of the mattress, eying the space between his bedmate’s thighs.

“Just _relax_ ,” cooed the stripling, timbre stained by raw nerve, “I-I’m just gonna— _Oh_ . . . It’s— _You’re_ — _Wow_.”

“Thought ya weren’t makin’ it weird?” Neighdyn chuckled, quirking a brow as he craned to examine his companion’s bemusement.

“I-I-It’s _just_ —There’s _a lot_ of— _Uh_ —”

“ _Precum?_ ”

“ _Pre_ — **Yeah**!” piped the fey, collecting a bit on the tips of his fingers, gliding them between his lips. “ _Oh_ , it’s . . . S- _Sour_ —?”

“W- _Why_ are you—?!”

“ **Hush**!” Ian groused, pondering the flavor.

Soon thereafter, he noticed the shaft; oscillating from its place against the equine’s underbelly.

There could be no mistaking the onset of silence. Neighdyn knew very well he’d been seen.

“ _Woah_ . . .” Ian whispered despite his objective, descending a palm to the Centaur’s pulsating head—

“ _Ah_ — ** _Don’t_** _!_ ” the elder rebuked, compulsorily bucking into his junior’s supple grip.

And as Iandore recoiled—lithe hands drawn to his breastbone—crystalline nectar poured from the swell of the lover’s flare.

“ _Sorry_ , sugar—Didn’t mean to _scare_ ya—”

“Y-You _didn’t_ ,” Ian assuaged; marvel embraced by a rose flush. “You okay? I- _I’m_ okay . . . _Should_ I—Do you want me to _stop?_ ”

But the athlete was lost to his instincts, humble eyes brimming with need as he measured the slighter.

“If I’m bein’ _honest?_ . . . Not really,” he chuckled, leveling his tone. “But I _do_ gotta warn ya: It’s gonna be quick . . . And there’s gonna be _a lot_.”

“E-Even more than there is _now?_ ” the stripling faltered, procuring a nod in response.

“If ya don’t _wanna_ —”

“I _want_ to! . . . I-I _do_ —I just—What about your _bed?_ There’s already _so much_ —”

“Don’t you worry yer pretty little head about _that_ part . . . Just—Do me a _solid_. Don’t go grabbin’ it from the _tip_ like that?” the jockey beseeched. “Feels better from the _shaft_ . . . Ain’t as _tender_ right— _Ah_ — _There_ ya go,” he commended, teeth bared as he strove for composure. “You can kinda pull it _toward_ ya—” he paused for a hiss, surging into the scion’s ministrations. “Don’t let go—Don’t be _scared_ . . . That’s good . . . _Real_ good, actually.”

Iandore was enthralled, pouring over the details; from the vascular base to the bloom of an obstinate flare.

“C-Can I _taste_ it?” he queried, heady musk inundating his senses.

“Well, ya _can_. But, I _wouldn’t_ — ** _Mm_** —!”

As the apex of his manhood was savored, Neighdyn found his muse lapping at the viscosity pooling along his delicate opening.

“ _Oh!_ ” Ian balked at taste on his lips. “I-It’s _better_ when it’s still _warm_ ,” he concluded, appraising the flavor between timid licks, “It’s kinda, like— _sweet_ and—m-maybe _buttery_ —?”

“Ya don’t gotta _describe_ it!” protested the equid, “And if ya keep on _lickin’_ —I just—D-Don’t point it at yer _face_ like that—!”

“Why _not?_ ” challenged Iandore, arching an inquisitive brow. “Y-You don’t want me to _swallow?_ ” he relished, downing a mouthful of saccharine brine. “It kinda gets _yummier_ the more you _taste_ it—!”

“ ** _Fuck_** —O-Okay— _Stop_ —!”

Too little, too late, as fate would have it.

The luminary found himself doused with iridescent honey, piquancy glazing his tongue and his jawline; the mass of the Centaur’s endowment convulsing as release scattered into the air. The firmer he grasped, the fiercer the torrent—until at last there was stillness, his lover enshrouded in radiant bliss.

“ _Ho_ —Holy—F- ** _Fuck_** ,” Neighdyn wheezed, bucking into the ingenue’s frangible grip. “ **Ah**!— _Baby_ —O- _Okay_! Lemme _go_ ,” came a drizzle of candor, obsidian seeking bemused valentines.

And Ian obliged, releasing his hold on the sportsman’s tempering member; fingers encircling their varnish of cooling release.

“I am _so_ . . . So, _so_ sorry, sweetness,” pleaded the hybrid, assessing the downpour of liquid pearls. “Just— _Gimme_ a minute and I’ll get ya cleaned up—”

“Nate . . . _Relax_ ,” interrupted the slighter, hands elevated in opposition. “I-It’s cool . . . _We’re_ cool.”

With a simpering grimace, the decorous heir dried his palms on the hem of his pullover.

“But we’d be even _cooler_ if you carried me into the shower.”


	7. bicycl€

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resplendent treasure poured into wonderstruck valentines, beseeching any trace of approval.

Beyond the centrifugal passage of time, Ian’s lucidity endured.

He could still feel the strength of broad hands at the small of his back, on that cloudless midsummer afternoon. The warm scintillation of bypassing vehicles, the remarkable scent of heat against asphalt, the sharp interjection of observant house dragons concealed behind white picket fences . . .

Though he also remembered the tears.

Warm blood pooling at the hems of his unblemished socks, the sting of fresh gravel still lodged in his wounds, the mortification of falling before an anxious crowd; strong arms coaxing him up and against the breadth of a spice-laden chest . . .

Bicycle left to the blistering pavement.

But later on the bed came those sorcerous kisses, brimming with might and unmerited mercy.

Bearded lips on the bends of quavering knees—freshly cleaned and dressed, though still fevered with agony—calloused fingers tugging socks from the softness of arches. And as he kissed his way down, eliciting giggles, Wilden savored his newfound grandeur.

His boy had been healed by the touch of his hand.

On his lips, surreptitious mirth.

As he made his way back, circumventing the bandages, he trailed his way up lissome thighs; securing his offspring through cloudbursts of laughter, simpering into the day’s dying light.

“Your beard _tickles_ , Daddy,” Ian chimed in his rapture, fists entangled in pomade and silk.

“ _Really?_ ” asked Wilden, timbre doused in disquiet, a ringed hand caressing the width of his jaw. “Do you want me to _shave_ it? I _will_ if you want me to.”

Though the fledgling presented a shake of his head, cherubic curls bounding through ribbons of eventide.

“ _No way!_ ” came a plea, melancholy and sweet. “I-I _like_ how it tickles.”

“That so? Do you, _really?_ ” Wilden furrowed his brows, “How _much_ do you like it—?”

“ _A lot!_ ” Ian parried, though his candor remained, “You wouldn’t be _Daddy_ , if your beard was gone.”

“You don’t _say,_ ” came a roil of velvet and ember, “Well, I _suppose_ I could keep it around . . .”

At this, he resumed; mustache grazing his progeny’s innermost thighs as he kissed his way down to nimbus-gray dressings.

“Feel _better_ yet, Freckles?” the elder inquired, Midasian gaze reviewing each grievance. “Even a _little?_ ”

A nod of approval flourished therein, adorned in a brace-laden smile.

“But . . . if you stop _now_ , the _magic_ might wear off,” quipped his gossamer youngest, discernable humor abound. 

It was then that floridity blossomed between them, each painted a trepidant scarlet. Wilden studied his offspring—who watched him in kind—unkempt brows tightly knit in bemusement. But as he pondered his junior’s naïve implications, he assented to clandestine wishes.

Wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue, Lightfoot senior descended just-beneath bandaged knees; the brush of a noble beard filtering southward, sweeping delicate ankles and graceless feet.

But Iandore offered little in this test of sensitivity, doe-eyes assessing the faintest of tremors along his father’s hair-dusted knuckles. Even as bewhiskered lips parted to taste of his toes, relishing echoes of brine and bath oil.

Resplendent treasure poured into wonderstruck valentines, beseeching any trace of approval.

Though the youth merely peered back, devotion entombing his childlike visage.

**• • •**

The force of his father’s grip gracing his arches never failed to invoke this memory.

Even now, as gilded ivy scrutinized their mundane accomplishments.

“What do you _think_ , Rabbit? Is the color _too much?_ ”

Ian offered a shake of his radiant tresses; each lock freshly lightened to vestal fluorescence.

“ _No_ , Daddy. It’s _perfect_. I-I like it _a lot_ . . . They’re kinda like _Mr. Aux-Gernon’s_ now,” he commended, baby doll-eyes flitting to humble obsidian.

For the Minotaur noble reclined alongside them, gaze darting from sire to decorous heir.

“So they _are!_ ” rang Asterion, observing his nailbeds, a grin along bovine lips. “My _sincerest_ apologies for putting you through all this . . . And on such _short notice_ , no less,”

But a shrug from the youngest allayed his misgivings, axinite drifting to Wilden’s unrest.

“It’s _alright_ , Mr. Aux-Gernon . . . _Really_. I-I _get_ it,” Ian offered a falsehood, embellished with innocence. “I’m still _learning_ about all this stuff, I suppose—”

“Rest _assured_ , little lamb, this situation is _tasteless_ ,” interrupted the hybrid. “ _Regrettably_ , longstanding traditions— _and_ their resulting prejudices— _still exist_ . . . And over these matters, I hold _little_ influence.”

“Your _mother_ understands the importance of all this,” Wilden flurried beneath them, the ghost of a smile upon barbate lips. “She knows _very well_ how The Elders can be—"

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Iandore countered, insolence marring his glistening alto. “We _all_ _know_ you drugged her and sent her away . . . The same as you _always_ do.”

Ostensible tension diminished the auditor's iniquitous handsomeness; amber gaze gliding to study his colleague before reassessing the sylphlike luminary.

“ _Iandore_ ,” cooed Asterion, extending a broad palm to cradle the slope of the neophyte’s shoulder. “Opportunities like _these_ come only _once_ in a lifetime . . . Your mother and father were _exceedingly_ _fortunate_ to receive an invitation to such an occasion,” he explained as the Elven patriarch stood from his place at his junior’s feet.

“The Hierarchy can _afford_ to be selective, Kitten . . . I don’t expect you to _understand_ , but I’d appreciate some _respect_ ,” Wilden apprised with a set of his jaw.

“The High Elven Council has always encouraged _intolerance_ amongst its highest-ranking officials, my darling,” Rion watched as his comrade readied a line of mercurial toxin along the edge of Laurel’s vanity. “Were they to discover your father has not only _married_ , but produced _two heirs_ with a common _Wood Elf_ —?”

“They’d treat her like glass in a room full of diamonds . . . I won’t _accept_ that, Iandore . . . And neither should _you_ ,” the analyst groused with a heady inhale. “If you loved her like _I_ do, you’d recognize how _important_ this is—”

“I-I d **o**! I _do_ love her!” Iandore countered, jarring the length of his synthesized tresses, “You _know_ I do, Daddy . . . I-It’s just—”

“Then _shut_ your **whore** mouth and don’t **_fucking_** _talk back_ to me—!”

“That’s **_quite enough_** , Wilden,” bellowed Asterion, a glower dimming his countenance, “Let him _speak_ , my good man . . . Can’t you see he’s _afraid?_ ”

Silence settled between them, senior and junior peering into each other.

“I-I’m not _scared_ —”

“ ** _Iandore_** ,” growled the hybrid, a quirk in his brow. “There’s no _shame_ in expressing _concern for your welfare_ . . . Your _father_ is every bit as _frightened_ as you are. And you _both_ sound like _simpletons_ defending your honor,” he counseled, rising to the fullness of his dominant height. “ _Now_ —We’ve _done_ what we _can_ to ensure your success . . . You have your father’s High Elven features to thank for the _opportunity_ to accompany him in tomorrow’s assembly—But the _rest_ , my dear child, relies upon _you_.”

With this, the imperial bade them farewell, embracing each Lightfoot against the breadth of his core.

But as Ian examined the nymphet in the mirror, the boy on his bicycle seemed lightyears away.

Silken locks veiled in moonlight, perfume on his skin, midnight black on his lashes . . .

His father’s Cheshire grin looming over his shoulder, profound nose nestled into the shell of his ear.

“Do you like what you _see_ , Freckles?” Wilden inquired, bloodshot eyes pouring over his diaphanous muse.

Notwithstanding his modesty, Ian nodded in favor, fawn-like eyes rounding as his father produced a leatherbound case from his left trouser pocket.

“I know things have been challenging. _Especially_ lately . . . But I want you to know that whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll love you the same as I always have,” came a rumble of vesper, gold-dusted grasp elevating the closure to display his affections. “I just had these flown in from Ville de Fleurs . . . They’re a tailored design. Custom made just for you.”

And there in a casket of velvet and satin, rested _Le Cocher_ diamonds and Southern Sea pearls.

“In _all of the world_ , there’s nothing else like them . . . Just the same as my baby boy.”


	8. diamonds are a boy's best ₣riend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abominations lingering just behind the curtain, never intended for mortal eyes

Stay by my side.

Remember your manners.

Speak only when spoken to.

Keep your voice low.

His father’s decree resounded throughout his mind like a sumptuous mantra, again and again as he glid through a sea of heavenly bodies, each impeccably dressed beneath the glisten of chandeliers.

 _The Elders_ —representing the High Elven faction of the illustrious _Hierarchy_ —weren’t as frightening as Iandore had been led to believe.

Not on the _surface_ , at least.

But the vacuous chill in their achromatic eyes as they conferred his father a sequence of handshakes was something the juvenile yearned to remember for decades to come.

Abominations lingering just behind the curtain, never intended for mortal eyes.

Once each honored guest had been formally welcomed, their gala commenced with Wilden’s inauguration ceremony. Something of an indoctrination into the High Elven upper class, according to Pasiphaë—the bride of Asterion—and nothing short of _imperious_ , at that.

 _The_ _Knighting of Wands_ , The Elders called it.

Aptly so, as each High Elven noble in attendance flaunted a series of intricate staves.

And succeeding the ritual, Wilden now brandished a wand of his own; gnarled and enduring, yet aesthetically poised.

An object of peculiar beauty.

Though nothing looked quite so beautiful to Iandore, as the sight of his father wielding it—

“Looks like a tall glass of water after a day’s worth of sunshine, doesn’t he?” a husky soprano coaxed him from his ruminations. “Who could ever guess he took himself so seriously?”

Ian weathered a glance to his bovine acquaintance, bashfully fluttering night-shaded lashes.

He’d always taken solace in the Aux-Gernons matron during periods of pandemonium. They’d hardly so much as _greeted_ one another over the past several years—and yet, by her aura alone—she unfailingly managed to instill a sense of peace in Wilden’s decorous heir.

“Though I _suppose_ the same could be said about _you_ ,” she trailed with an indecipherable expression, succeeded by a wink of assurance as she skimmed the softness of her hand along the perpendicular slope of lithe shoulders. “You’ve always carried such a _heavy_ burden,” she continued, her gaze of chartreuse bypassing the glamours about the boy beneath her fingertips. “But we never **see** it . . . You’re quite the _performer_.”

Shadowing an affectionate squeeze, the Minotaur noble withdrew the bronzed satin of her touch.

“ _So!_ ” she chirped, elevating her voice in a manner that lured contemptuous glances, “Now that the _boring_ part’s over and done, I’ll fetch us some champagne and head onto the terrace.”

With a clatter of heels, she slipped into the intoxicated sway of attendants, head and shoulders above nearly any around her.

The ingenue sighed, intently assessing the glistering details of his weighty regalia; extremities drizzled with diamonds and pearls—stilettos and party dress comprised of the same—gracelessness marring his star-studded carriage as he labored for balance upon pallid flooring.

“I _survived!_ ” tittered Pasiphaë, fluted glasses in hand. “I’ll hold onto your drink,” she soothed with a smile, eying the neophyte’s tremulous posture. “Just use me for leverage. I’ll walk you outside.”

Together they traversed a sea of white marble, gratuitous blather left to the ballroom. Instantaneously, the patrician stepped from her shoes, expression distorting in a way that she _knew_ would elicit good humor from her Elven companion.

And like clockwork, a glassy scintillation of mirth.

“Can you _believe_ the things we do to impress one another?” she groused with a quirk of her flaxen brows. “And what do _they_ all care?” she bellowed in jest, nose to the air in a show of displeasure. “ _Certainly_ not about the blistered soles of our _feet_ , or the way that our _toes_ go numb and askew . . . No, _they_ only care that we show up to these parties _dripping_ in jewels and couture.”

As she rambled, she stooped, unfastening each coil of glimmering lace up the length of Iandore’s visible thighs.

“ _Well_ , _well_ . . . By the grace of _Athena_ , these detestable _straps_ didn’t leave any marks on your lovely skin,” respired the hybrid, allowing her junior to slide from each crystalline pump. “You get _enough_ bruises without the assistance of contraptions like _these_.”

Ian stifled a whimper, permitting his feet to align with the chilled terrace floor.

“That’s alright, darling . . . Nice and _easy_ . . . No rush,” coddled Pasiphaë, extending the minor his glass of champagne.

With this, she rose to the length of her prominent height, plucking her glass from the floor as she went.

“ _Ah!_ ” she exclaimed with a breath of amusement, “Now isn’t _that_ better? Nothing left to distract us from enjoying the moonlight.”

The scion presented a nod in consensus, raising his glass to his sun-dappled lips, contemplating the saccharine sharpness.

Then with a clear of his throat, he endeavored for conversation:

“Both moons are _full_ ,” he apprised in a whisper, faultless vermillion admiring the night. “But the crickets are _quiet_ . . . I-It’s kinda _weird_ , huh?”

Though the bovine aristocrat furrowed her brows, rolling her eyes with an errant grin.

“You always take notice of life’s little details,” she smiled with a shake of her ivory head. “You know, it’s a _pity_ how little we’ve spoken . . . But through _Briar_ , I’ve come to believe that I _know_ you somewhat,” she paused for a drink of her shimmering spirit. “I realize _now_ , there are things you _can’t_ talk about . . . Not to your mother, or brother, or Briar . . . Not to your schoolmates, or teachers and tutors.”

She glanced to the luminary, who examined the light, a chuckle escaping her at his staunch negligence.

“ _But,_ ” she continued, drifting the cashmere breadth of her palm to the striping’s exposed lower back, “I want you to know, you can always confide in _me_ . . . This world has done its _damnedest_ to embezzle your purity . . . And _yet_ , you still listen for cricket-song—”

“And just who in the _Hel_ do we have out here _brooding_ on the balcony?!” came a roil of gravel and ardor. “Why, it’s _old_ lady Phaë, and her midnight _snack!_ ”

As the Minotaur grumbled subdued obscenities, she rounded to welcome the boisterous newcomer.

“Ah! _Corey_ , darling!” she rang with a flourish of gold-dusted arms, drawing her fellow hybrid into a fervent embrace. “So _wonderful_ to see you again, my **_old_** . . . _old_ , **old** friend.”

“ _Hah!_ You’re older than me by _at least_ a millennium!”

“And yet, after _all_ these years, I’ve managed to hold onto my _bewitching_ good looks,” the imperial preened with a shrug of her shoulders.

“More like your good looks have held onto _you—_ And it looks like they’re _slipping!_ ” Corey guffawed, earning a lighthearted slap from her elder.

“Oh, you _vicious_ little fiend—!”

“So, who’s _this?_ ” interjected the Manticore, a quirk threading through her feline brow. “Looks a little too _young_ for an old broad like _you_.”

“You’re _hilarious_ , darling . . . _Truly_. I _mean_ that . . . Your comedic genius knows no bounds,” the Minotaur groused with a roll of wry peridot. “And, if you simply _must_ know, this is—”

“My _wife_ , Laurel Lightfoot,” came a velveteen rumble of night-blooming nectar. “I’ve been looking _all over_ for you, angel . . . Should have _known_ you’d be out here, drinking up all the moonlight.”

Wilden’s arrival marked the modest foundations of Iandore’s solace, the monocled gentleman striding to light within his offspring’s shadow.

“Has she been keeping you ladies properly _entertained?_ ” asked the Elven ascendent, a radiant grin upon barbate lips.

“How the Hel should _I_ know?!” the Manticore quipped, “I didn’t get a chance to _size her up_ yet—!”

“She’s been an absolute _pleasure_ this evening, Mr. Lightfoot,” Pasiphaë countered, glowering into her fellow crossbreed (who muttered a humorous, _‘Oop’_ ). “Come _along_ , Corey, darling,” the aristocrat summoned, stepping into her treacherous heels. “Let’s allow these two lovebirds a moment of _silence_.”

“ _What?!_ —Well— _Wait!_ —What about the—It was nice _meeting_ you two!”

With this, the quarreling hybrids slipped back into the fray, leaving father and son to ephemeral privacy.

“Did I remember to tell you how _incredible_ you look tonight?” Wilden queried with an arch of his brow, enshrouding his progeny in spice-laden strength.

Though Iandore faltered, axinite rounding to fawn-like perfection as he glanced beyond his elder to the rabble upon the ballroom floor.

“S-Somebody might _see_ us—”

“We’re _safe_ here, Kitten,” cooed the towering adept. “After _all_ , you’re my _wife_ . . . Well, as far as _they_ know,” he gestured toward the waltzing conglomerate. “ _Tonight_ , I can touch you whenever it _pleases_ me,” he threatened, mischief on his lips as he descended upon the lushness of his junior’s; tongue delving inside to savor the palate of honied artlessness.

And beneath gilded æther and blistering eventide, the stripling’s mind was no longer his own. In an instant, he melted beneath his father’s caress—hair-dusted knuckles at the small of his back—guiding him onto the marbleized railing, elegant legs entwining about the mithril and silk of his father’s waist.

Wilden permitted himself to linger, manhood stirring to life at the tension between them, a calloused hand skirting beneath the hem of his progeny’s scandalous dress. With an arch of his back, Iandore balanced his elder’s fervor, his own endowment bit by the chill of his chainmail couture.

Fingers dove between intricate layers of luxuriant silk, the complexity of Lightfoot senior’s suit jacket confounding them—

“I’ve never wanted anything _so_ _badly_ in my entire life,” respired the analyst, Midasian treasure haling lust-darkened opaline. “If I don’t stop myself _now_ , I’m gonna fuck you _right_ _here_ with everyone watching.”

So, with an indistinct grumble, he renounced his endeavors—setting his jaw at the sight of his muse: a celestial being, embellished in opulence, adorned in a halo of binal moonlight.

His labor of love.

His greatest achievement.

His magnum opus.


	9. my heart be₤ongs to daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more nacreous fables.

For many of the gala’s revered attendants, the lines between inebriated and dozing along the ballroom floor were slowly beginning to blur. And as midnight enshrouded their celebration, mirth had begun to diminish; a majority of their founding hosts having crept away to rest their weary heads.

Wilden sat amongst a congregation of stragglers—each recounting his respective glory days—the Lightfoot ascendant’s effulgent leer sharp and keen as he nursed what Iandore guessed to be his twelfth cocktail of the evening.

Corey and Pasiphaë had taken their leave in the hours preceding; the ivory-crowned matron extending the gala’s youngest attendant the invitation of a ride home. Though for reasons unknown, his father had strictly forbidden it. Neither feline nor bovine professed to comprehend the importance of Iandore’s bearing of witness to the night’s dwindling embers.

But the violet patrician’s word was his law.

So alone, there he stood; shoulders poised against the lumbering breadth of a cathedralic wall, fingers waltzing along the backlit display of his gem-dusted mobile.

 _‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: how’s that party treating you freckles?’_ queried his betrothed, and the stripling could very nearly _hear_ the mischief drizzling from the dandy’s lips.

The image enthused him, though he’d never admit to it.

 _‘I’m doing alright… Pretty bored, I suppose… Our Dads are both sober, but everyone else is either sleeping or wasted… You know they’re always the last men standing at parties like these,’_ Ian quipped, cinnabar darting to survey the occasion. _‘I don’t think we’ll be here too much longer…’_

In this, he sincerely longed for belief.

 _‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: are you visiting afterwards? i’ve been missing my baby..’_ seduced the imperial, producing a series of smarmy emojis.

 _‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: you’ve been quiet lately.. with me, at least.. heard you were running around with some jockey,’_ he conceded, expressing concern with a pondering character.

 _‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: is this you falling for some other guy?’,_ came the nobleman’s next inquiry, providing his beau little room for error.

The luminary judiciously contemplated, opting for fairness against his instincts.

 _‘I really don’t know yet,’_ Ian confessed, diffidence blighting his ample brows, _‘I’ll try my best not to, but he’s very sweet… You know that I love you, and I love your family… Maybe I’m just confused.’_

He paused to allot the imperial time to invoke his impending response, moonstone drifting to gauge the inception of madness in marigold eyes—

 _‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: i understand that.. we’re both young you know? and we’ve both got a lot going on in our lives.. but i want you to know that i’d love you regardless of who you belonged to..’_ the imperial yielded, a flourish of hearts adorning sincerity.

_‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: things have been moving so quickly between us, but we didn’t get any say in all this.. when my father chose you for me, i was delighted.. i hoped that you might feel the same.. but believe me when I tell you, that I completely understand if you don’t..’_

His assertions were lush with assurance, notwithstanding the heartache they thinly concealed.

 _‘‘🥀_ _Briar_ _🥀_ _: let’s talk about this when i see you next.. miss your freckles and all of your funny faces..’_ he concluded, leaving Ian without the spirit for candor.

 _‘I miss you, too,’_ he presented instead, though he yearned for the passion to bolster his falsehoods.

There was something to be said for the phrase ‘too much, too fast,’ and his relationship with the bovine aristocrat had been skirting this threshold persistently.

Briar was an incredible man, peculiar as he may have been. He would make a fine husband—preferably of his own accord—to someone truly deserving of his affections.

Somebody, someday.

But _Iandore_ had come to a decision—

“More _champagne_ , miss?” disrupted a waiter, jubilant timbre enmeshing with lethargy. “We’re out of everything but _Blanc de Blancs_ ,” he notified, feigning regret.

“No, thank-you,” piped Ian, alto pinched to disguise its boyishness, “A-Actually, maybe you could help me find the restroom?”

The Satyr tipped his empty head, quickly forgoing his burgeoning interest as he motioned for the taller to follow.

“Right this way,” he announced, assessing the state of the gala’s remaining attendants. “Glad to find _someone_ still knows when to call it quits,” he groused with a shake of his unctuous curls. “The _cleanup_ on this lot’s gonna be a real treat.”

Iandore spared him a reticent chuckle, ample brows pinched to convey his apology as he trailed through the immaculate halls of the country club.

“See all those doors at the end of the hall?” inquired his guide, extending a finger toward their destination. “Pick whichever one’s cleanest. It’s hard to say what state they’ll be in this late into the night,” he snarked with a roll of his eyes, provoking a second diffident giggle.

“R- _Right_ . . . I’m really—I-I’m _sorry_ about them . . . It probably feels more like babysitting, huh?” Ian stammered while stepping away. “Thanks again,” he commended, nodding his gratitude.

Though in approaching the sequence of doors, the stripling found each one indistinguishable.

“Which one’s the _ladies’_ room?” he whispered aloud, doll-eyes darting to and fro. “The ones on the right,” he’d come to decide, aching feet carrying him through the threshold.

Sparing the rush of an active faucet, the women’s room was impeccable; the youth promptly striding to disengage the tap.

It was there that he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror—the faultless vision of a child wearing his mother’s clothing—and he couldn’t help but laugh.

He wouldn’t disavow his unusual beauty. His father’s work was immaculate in that regard. But the glistening regalia scarcely clinging to his form lacked sophistication when compared with Laurel, to whom the ensemble initially belonged.

 _‘Unsophisticated, sure. But erotic, nonetheless,’_ he could hear his father say.

He denied himself a smirk of satisfaction as he toyed with the arrogant length of his extensions, adjusting his mother’s party dress along the twice-bitten valleys of his undersized frame.

Another giggle, this time embellished by an incredulous shake of his opulent head as he turned to enclose himself within a stall. He took his time, meticulously elevating the hem of his secondhand attire, lowering himself upon the chilled porcelain . . .

In an instant, he found his relief; shuddering a sigh as he rested his cellphone across the tissue dispenser, plucking several sheets from the roll before blotting his nethers—

The breathlessness of an opening door lit the apex of his ears.

His mind raced; dread trickling through him as he considered the prospect of any attendants baiting him into sink-side conversation. Though within the lull of ensuing silence, he concluded that his paranoia was beginning to surmount him.

Rising to flush and adjust himself, the decorous scion turned to leave—only to find a familiar face looming atop his intended exit.

Golden eyes—embroidered in rouge—softened adoringly, brimming with interest; a sense of icy terror overcoming over Iandore.

“We meet at last, _L’enfant bleu Cendrillon_ ,” the Minotaur smiled, visage drawn between mirth and mischief as he gestured with treacherous spires of ivory for Ian to take his exit. “ _Come_ . . . Let us talk.”

“T- _Talk?_ ” Ian smiled sweetly, laboring to stifle the telltale tremor in his lissome fingers. “Mister _Aux-Gernons_ , I—”

“I _said_ , come _**out**_ , little one . . . Or would you prefer it if _I_ came to _you?_ ” queried the hybrid, honied baritone endeavoring to veil the malice in his lecherous eyes.

Eyes that weren’t always so cold and indecorous.

Succeeding a moment of solemn reflection, Ian steeled his nerves and exited the stall; not receiving an opportunity for escape before the behemoth was pinning him against the adjacent wall.

“ _So_ ,” the horned patrician smiled, adjusting the stress of his iron grip, allotting his prey a mere sliver of comfort. “I heard a _rumor_ —That you’ve been _saving yourself_ for my youngest child . . . Is that true?”

The Elven heir writhed beneath the unbridled dominance of the Minotaur’s leer, eyes of frightened axinite pouring over the bestial elements of his aggressor.

“Y- _Your_ . . . Your _youngest_ son?” questioned the ingenue, displeasure marring his youthful beauty. “I-I thought _Briar_ was—”

“The only one _still living_ , yes,” the noble interjected, arching an unruly brow as he relished in his game.

“ _What?_ . . . I-If there were _others_ ,” Ian paused, evading eye contact, “Well then—W-What _happened_ to them?”

Reciprocal stillness blossomed between them; the elder contentedly eying his junior before stooping to catch his unblemished gaze.

“I did what _any_ god would do, who feared the vitality of youth,” he led, elevating the breadth of a sun-kissed claw to graze the hollow of his captive’s chest. “I consumed them— _each_ and _every_ one—until my wife produced an heir who could not overthrow me.”

Ian felt as though his very blood had stilled within his veins, abyssal darkness pouring from his captor’s bearded lips.

“Consume the _brave_ to yield strength, consume the _meek_ to yield vitality—"

“A- _Asterion_ —!”

“ ** _Asterius_** ,” snarled the Minotaur, the pinnacle of gilded nostrils exuding steam and ire. “The King of Swords, defiler of champions, consumer of idols, usurper to the ivory throne—”

In a display of youthful impudence, Iandore slithered from the grasp of his oppressor—who glanced a taloned fist against the backlit mirror in his haste to reacquire his scampering prey—shattering perfection as he knocked his target to the floor.

“Every bit as foolish as you are delicious, one would hope,” the dandy quipped, observing as his junior labored for any semblance clarity, emptied lungs gasping for lifegiving air. “Very _bold_ —I’ll give you that—But very, _very_ foolish.”

As the crowned imperial knelt amongst the ruins of reflection, the Elven luminary found himself pleading for mercy, tears of repentance cascading along the marquis of his jaw.

“A-Asterion— _Stop_ ,” the fledgling pleaded, witnessing the approach his elder’s shadow through misted lashes. “It’s not— _This_ —This isn’t _you_ . . . I-I _know_ you, Rion— _Please_ —”

“He’s not _coming_ , Freckles,” tittered Asterius, salacious expression betraying his audible sympathy. “But _I’m_ here,” he reassured, gliding an obsidian claw beneath the hem of Ian’s eveningwear. “I’m _always_ here—”

A moment of silence blighted the nobleman’s tenderness, pure blood spilling from the socket of his rightmost eye along a gleaming shard of offending mirror.

The world stood still.

Like a dream.

Iandore’s supple palms carved by the fractured edges of his makeshift weapon, diaphanous frame racked by blistering anguish as the shell of his childhood companion slumped lifelessly into the offending blade, effectively pinning him to the pallid floor.

He cried for his father, who had lost his friend.

He cried for his lover, who had lost his father.

He cried for Pasiphaë, who had lost her husband.

He cried for his country, who had lost its King.

He cried for himself, who had lost his protector.

No more piggyback rides. No more nacreous fables. No more gifts of soft ice cream on Summer trips to Narrioch.

For the old King of Cups now lie sleeping against him—peaceful, like before he was born—bathing his breast in the warmth of his blood.

A familiar presence now loomed in the threshold, Midasian leer flitting from monarch to heir.

“I- ** _Ian_** _!_ ” Wilden bellowed, at his side in an instant, breathlessly gathering his wits. “What’s going _on_ here?!”

But his boy had been lost to the roil of grief, valentine chocolate constricted in fright.

“ _Odin’s beard_ —What—What _happened?!_ ” the Lightfoot ascendant repeated once more, noting Asterion’s breathless slumber. “Iandore _what_ . . . What have you _done?_ ”

As he battled hysteria, he inched alongside his bloodstained youngest, removing his jacket in a transient moment of lucidity.

The groan of the doorway resounded once more, where a member of staff remained frozen in horror.

“ ** _Help_** _me!_ ” barked Wilden, hands varnished in crimson, attempting to free the youth from his trappings. “ _Come on_ , man, **_do_** something!”

“A- _Alright!_ ” yelped the newcomer, scurrying to his aid; four coarsened palms anchored beneath frangible shoulders as they pulled the petite adept from beneath his lifeless comrade.

“ _Talk_ to me, Kitten,” Wilden croaked, lurid prints adorning pastel flesh, “I-I _have_ to know what _happened_ —”

“Gon’ git you two some _help_ —!”

“You’ll do **_no_** _such thing!_ ” the elder seethed, liquid treasure scorching anxious sable. “ _This_ —I-I _can’t_ —I don’t know what to _do_ ,” apprised the auditor, panic lacing through his velvet baritone. “He’s in _shock_ , and we’re going to need answers . . . _Take_ him . . . I’ll buy us some time.”

Though the stranger promptly shook his head, lips parted in opposition—

“ ** _Please_** , just _take him_ ,” the gentleman beseeched, scarlet fingers delving to retrieve his wallet, producing a stack of florid bills. “There’ll be more where _this_ came from—Just—Don’t let _anyone_ see you leave. Take him to _New Mushroomton_ —”

“I-I’m jus’ a _cook!_ I-I-I’m _on the clock_ —!”

“ ** _This is my son_** _!_ ” bellowed the analyst, agony welling in his gaze. “ ** _That_** was my **_friend_** _!_ ” he growled next, jutting a finger toward the lifeless highborn. “ _Please!_ Just **_go_** _!_ I-I’ll pay you _anything_ you want—Just—Get him _out_ of Aes Sídhe. Take him to the parking lot of Taddleberry Plaza—”

“ _Taddleberry_ —But that’s—!”

“ ** _Listen_** _to me_ , damn you!” Wilden thundered, guiding his offspring to a quavering stand, a sanguine pool beneath their feet. “Taddleberry Plaza. I-I’ll give you my contact information. My oldest son will meet you there— ** _Focus_** _!_ —Protect him with your _life_ , you hear me? _Please_ . . . This is my baby boy.”

As he went, his timbre softened, tears enshrouding gallant hazel.

At this, the newcomer was silenced, watching as his senior draped his progeny in moonlit silk.

“I’ll need your number before you go,” prompted the bearded nobleman, reaching to retrieve his phone.

“Should there be _any_ complications, contact me _immediately_ . . . A-And contact me _as soon_ as you arrive,” he instructed, securing the stranger’s cellphone number; placing a call to authenticate.

With this, he pressed a lingering kiss into his offspring’s dampened temple, mindful not to stain the shell of his pearlescent blazer.

“What was your name?” Wilden queried, trepidation on his lips.

“It’s _Tanner_ , sir,” the slighter introduced, accepting his elder’s precious cargo.

“ _Thank-you_ , Tanner . . . Now, _remember_ —”

“You got it, boss. I won’t git caught . . . I’ll keep yer lil’ princess safe.”


	10. troubled paradi₵e

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger to all, save for one.

Twenty-four hours was all that it took to reduce the world to cinder and ire.

_‘The King of Cups Loses His Final Bet!’_

At least, that’s what the tabloids said.

The cruel and clever things they spun to drive their sales and ensnare the public.

But Barley refused to see the humor in them; inspecting every passerby, seated in Jeneviève’s living area . . .

The last lingering fragment of a life before their economic climb, the spirited Satyr always held a certain _fondness_ for Iandore. So, when he’d arrived in the arms of a stranger late into the dwindling night, caked with blood and dripping diamonds, the hybrid found herself aptly distressed.

And alongside _one_ stranger, entered the _next_.

She and Sadalia had only ever heard of one another through their mutual connection, and while they couldn’t be more different, the two found instantaneous harmony. She and _Barley_ had been introduced several Summers prior; the hulking fabler ferrying his father’s favorite to whichever midnight destination Jenny proposed.

But _Tanner?_. . .

Tanner was _new_ to her.

 _New_ , and decidedly uninvited.

“Ya got yer _fookin’_ money, ‘ey? If so, then _take yer leave,_ ” she contested, grimacing as the newcomer nosed about her cluttered kitchen. “Expect some _food_ now, do ya?” she challenged, entwining her spindly arms. “Expectin’ _me_ ta feed ya? What little food I get fer _m’self?!_ I don’t have the funds ta feed my bloody _friends!_ Let alone a _greasy fookin’ **stranger**_ —!”

“ **Lady** ,” Tanner interposed, leafing through her modest cupboard. “I’m _tyna’_ fix us all a lil’ _supper_ here,” he paused for a sigh, defeatedly closing a cabinet door. “And I’m _guessin’_ yer livin’ off _condiments_ , huh? I’ll jus’ go pick sum’n up—”

“Oh, _will_ ya now?! Have ya _lost_ what _little_ mind ya _got_ —?!” the Satyr nagged, defusing her ardor as Sadalia entered.

“Well, _this_ sounds like a fun conversation,” she quipped, donning a smirk as she eyed her acquaintances. “ _Trapper_ —?”

“Tanner.”

“ _Tanner!_ That’s right,” the slighter concurred. “Didn’t _Mr. Lightfoot_ tell you on the phone this morning, that if you wanted to _help_ , just _lay low_ for a while?” she recalled with an arch of a sculpted brow. “You were there at _The Gala_ , or don’t you remember? . . . The _authorities_ are already _looking_ for you,” she pressed with a purse of her ample lips. “Shoulda bounced at the drop off, kid! Now you’re an _outlaw!_ ” she mocked with a chuckle, reaching to tender the ruffian’s bicep a lighthearted slap.

Jeneviève shared in Sadalia’s amusement, infectious as it ever was.

“And _you_ ,” Sadie piped, addressing the hybrid. “Are _friends_ with the _fugitive_ . . . _Not_ a great look! So you’re stuck here with _Tagger_ until this blows over.”

The cook hung his head, too fatigued to correct her.

“Don’t call him a _fugitive_ ,” Barley groused from the sofa, weary eyes watching the evening traffic. “We _all_ _know_ he’s innocent . . . That _sick fuck_ was gonna rape him—”

“Or _eat_ him!” Sadalia chirped.

“ _And_ eat him,” the gamer enforced, interlocking his arms with a shake of his head.

“ _Don’t move_ ,” reprimanded the Dark Elf behind him, winding the length of his unctuous mane around a series of differing rods. “If these don’t turn out right, it’ll injure my _pride_ ,” she teased with a smile, notwithstanding her tautness. “After _you’re_ done, I’ll start on your _brother_ . . . The poor things been sleeping all day.”

At the first sight of dawn—after prudently strategizing—Wilden reached out to Sadalia’s mother, Aluna; a venerated stylist among Aes Sídhe’s elite. She’d been employed to deliver something of a transformation to the adept’s incongruent offspring.

_‘Just enough to keep the authorities guessing—’_

“When’s this _cop_ s’posed ta show up?” Tanner inquired, ambling into the living area. “What makes yer _paw_ so sure we can _trust_ these guys—?”

“Pop’s never sure about _anything_ ,” Barley dissented, glowering into the evening light. “That’s what got Iandore _into_ this mess . . . He stopped fuckin’ thinking about the _consequences_ of his actions—”

“Barley, _please_ ,” Aluna chided, releasing a breath, “Tapper? _Commissioner Bronco_ should be here in the morning. Now go upstairs and check-in on the little one . . . And _Sadalia?_ ” she paused for a narrowed glance over the bend of her shoulder, “For the _love_ of _Inanna_ , can’t you find _anything else_ to talk about?”

The slighter girl faltered, eying her mother.

“What happened to your _friend_ last night? Wasn’t _fun_ or _exciting_. It wasn’t _news_ for the _school paper_. It was _abominable_ . . . He could have been hurt—Or _much_ worse,” she admonished, Barley gritting his teeth as she raked through his tresses. “And Barley? _Regardless_ of whatever you may have _thought_ about him: Asterion was a _king_. Not _your_ king, but _a king_ —And a _husband_ and _father_ above all else . . . And last night? He was _killed_. By _your_ baby brother . . . He _deserves_ your **_respect_**. I don’t _care_ if you _liked_ him.”

Silence settled upon them, the eldest and her client each setting their jaws; Tanner taking his leave moments later.

He ascended the stairway—every step groaning beneath him—before reaching the hall leading into the Master Bedroom. He quietly made his way through the dusk, finding his objective lying awake; grief-swollen eyes shining out through the darkness.

“ _Oh_ ,” Tanner balked, removing his hat. “Yer _up_ ,” he respired, tension blighting his carriage. “ _She_ —That big lady—Sent me up here ta _check_ on ya . . .”

But the delicate youth remained quiet and still, unmoving beyond the occasional flutter of lashes.

“ _Hey_ ,” the broader man hailed once again, pacing up to the bed to loom over the stripling. “Glad to see yer _awake_ . . . Know ya had a rough night,” he adjourned for a grimace, “I’m not real good with _words_ , but . . . I-I just wanted to tell ya, I’m _here_ if ya _need_ me—”

“Just stop,” Ian croaked, only distantly audible, “You’re just here to make _money_. Y-You’re not _here_ ‘cause you _care_.”

Tanner furrowed his brows, bristled lips parting to voice their dissention:

“ _What_ —That’s not _fair_ —!”

“ _Nothing’s_ fair,” Ian countered, drifting his gaze to the man alongside him. “That’s all _anyone_ wants from me. Money or sex . . . So what’ll it _be_ , Tiger?”

His acquaintance withdrew, compassion draining from his rugged visage.

In a series of motions, he reached into his pocket, producing a stack of ensanguined bills.

“I don’t _need_ yer fuckin’ money,” he seethed with a toss, adorning the youth in a shower of fortune. “I just wanted ta _help_ ya,” the philistine pressed, canines glinting gold in the vanishing light. “Told yer _paw_ I’d _take care_ o’ ya . . . That’s a promise I’m _keepin’_.”

He labored for distance, lingering within the darkened threshold.

“And I’d do it _again_ . . . Cash or _no_ cash.”

With this, he departed, leaving Ian to bask in his pallet of opulence and youthful detachment.

**• • •**

In the hours succeeding their twilit dispute, Iandore willed himself down to engage with his comrades.

Barley’s hair in _itself_ was a comical wonder, but the clothes he’d been granted were dapper and couth; fitted slacks and a sweater-vest, layered atop something quite short in the sleeves . . .

“You look _nice_ ,” Ian told him, maintaining his poise as Aluna fussed over his bloodstained extensions. “Send a picture to _Mom_ ,” he suggested next, attempting to placate his trepidant elder.

“Mom’s got _enough_ on her plate,” Barley spat in unrest, releasing a sigh as he paced between doorways. “You were using _her name_ at that party, _remember?_. . . Who _knows_ what’ll happen to her over all this.”

“W-Well, she’s out of the country,” the stripling reviewed, feeling the last of faux tresses detached. “And _besides_ ,” he paused, gliding hands through his hair; still chemically straightened, at its natural length, “I-If she’s _worried_ , don’t you think she’d like to _see_ _us_ , at least—?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t contact her. We don’t know if it’s _safe_ ,” interjected Aluna, discarding the remnants of her client’s extensions. “The authorities might already _be_ tracing your calls, your transactions,” she trailed, setting about leveling Iandore’s haircut, “ _Anything goes_ , in the eyes of the law . . . If they’re _looking_ , they’ll _find_ you. _That much_ you can _count_ on—”

A knock at the door suspended her guidance, leaving them equally frozen in terror.

“You were _supposed_ ta be watchin’ the _driveway!_ ” Jenny hissed from her place at the edge of the sofa.

“ _You_ closed the _blinds!_ ” Barley seized his defense.

“It was fookin’ _dark_ ou’side—!”

A second knock, this time a touch more persistent.

“What do we _do?!_ ” Sadie asked in a whisper. “Should we hide the _boys_ —?”

“N- _No_ ,” Ian piped through the onset of stillness. “It’s _alright_ . . . I-It’s _okay_. If it’s _them_ , then they _caught_ us,” he witnessed the color drain from Barley’s face. “Just—O-Open the door . . . I mean, maybe its _Dad_ ,” he persuaded, receiving a reticent nod from his sibling.

“Well—Should _we_ hide?” Sadalia stammered next to her mother, elegant hands interlaced in disquiet.

“Ian’s _right_ ,” soothed Aluna, extending her touch. “If it’s _them_ , then they _caught_ us . . . I made the decision to offer my services . . . He did what he _did_ , in self-defense,” she expressed with a squeeze of her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m standing with _Ian_. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Sharing reciprocal nods of assent, Barley opened the door, unveiling the face of a towering stranger.

A stranger to all, save for _one_.

“N- _Neighdyn?!_ ” yelped Iandore, at his feet in an instant, darting to throw himself at his companion. . .

But the Centaur was silent, sobriety marring his humble eyes.

“ _Iandore_ ,” he acknowledged, hands secured at his sides. “Uncle _Bronco_ just sent me to drop off a _package_ ,” discernable tension diminished his Southern drawl. “So . . . I’m guessin’ that’s _that_.”

And as moonstone held umber, peering into dissension, the fey elevated his palm to the hybrid’s—

“ _Don’t_ ,” Neighdyn grumbled, renouncing his touch. “It’ll just make this _harder_ on me,” he expressed, presenting the luminary with his parcel. “There should be two _IDs_ in there . . . _Burner phones_ , too. Credit cards, license plates— _Hel_ —even _passports_ . . . All under new names.”

Ian’s pulse escalated as he thumbed through his records, unnerved by the athlete’s vacuous drone.

“Guess they mixed the _dates_ up on the licenses . . . _Sorry_ ,” the sportsman conceded, submitting a shake of his sweat-dampened mane. “But I think you could pass fer nineteen, with _that_ haircut,” he offered the faintest of quips. “But _Barley?_ Fat chance . . . That’s a full-grown _man_ ,” he ribbed with a gesture toward Wilden’s eldest. “Better keep yer _beard_ shorn down to _nothin’_ , ya hear? . . . Yer _seventeen_ , now . . . Don’t go blowin’ ya’lls _cover_.”

The Quest Master chuckled, accepting his documents, Midasian gaze drifting over the details.

“Who came up with these _names_ , huh?” he queried in jest, nudging his sibling in hopes of assuagement. “ _‘Emmer Hoarfrost’?_ Really? Like _that’s_ not suspicious.”

Though Iandore soundlessly studied the equine, clutching his parcel with quavering fingers.

“ _Welp_ . . . Guess I better head _out_ —”

“ _Nate_ —Just—C-Can we _talk?_ ” the stripling beseeched; blameless eyes filled with tears as he battled for temperance.

“I _can’t_ , Iandore . . . Or should I say, _‘Cadeau’_ , now?” Neighdyn fought for a smile, immolating his candor. “I _know_ ya did whatcha _had_ to . . . Ol’ _Colt_ said a _Minotaur’s_ got skin like titanium. Squarin’ off against one, ya gotta go for _the_ _eyes_ . . . The eyes, or inside of the _mouth_ —”

“I-If you _trust_ me, then why can’t we _talk_ about this—?!”

“Cause’ it _hurts_ me, goddamn it!” Neighdyn bellowed in grief. “I come from a whole fuckin’ _family_ of _cops_! Do you have _any idea_ what that _means?_ ” he inquired, attempting to bolster his crumbling resolve. “It means that me _standin’_ here? Could get ‘em in _trouble_ —The only reason it’s _me_ and not some _fuck_ from the station, is ‘cause I wanted to _see_ you . . . I _needed_ to see you were _safe_ with my own eyes,” he confessed, obsidian hailing vermillion. “A-And now that I’ve _done_ that,” he paused for a sniffle, raising a bronzed fist to scrub at his eyes.

“N-Neighdyn, _please_ —”

“Now that I _know_ . . . I can tell you _good-bye_.”

With this, he descended upon Ian’s lips; delicate rose gracing bristle and trauma.

He allowed himself to linger—combating a sob—tasting æther and fairy dust, searing the memory into his lips before lengthening to his lumbering height.

“ _Iandore_ . . . Barley,” he bade with a smile, withdrawing himself from the oxidized threshold.

The dissonant sound of a hero’s abandon.

Echoing footfalls against cobblestones.

The prey and his archer, dissevered at last.


End file.
